Tiger Warren's Grave

Reckoning

Nine of Swords
In Memory of a Nightmare
The Metaphor as Magic
Death is Change


The funeral of Portland was a sad but beautiful affair.
No one was there.
The rain of course showed up, and roses were bursting off the bush.
Clouds arrived on schedule and the chickadees seemed interested.

It was a sudden death. Cause unknown. The announcement for the somber event was posted. It read, Portland dead after short illness.

The time was set at 11:00 AM. The spot for the burial was a choice one. It boasted a view of the Willamette River and Mt. Hood in the distance. The million-dollar sight looking east.

A lone black sedan arrived. It wasn’t a funerary car; it was a plain, black four door. Late nineties model.
A man in black got out of the drivers seat of the discreet set of wheels. He was tall and lean. He wore a hat to keep his head from the steady drip of the droplets.

He looked around and heard the showers grow stronger in a wind that blew from the north. The trees let loose of spiraling seedlings that poured down on the gravesite like a whirlwind. They whipped up and twirled a dance that lifted the tall, man in black’s hat enough for him to grab it and adjust it back on his proud head.

He walked toward the green and white striped tenting that was placed next to a deep, black hole. The man in black stood at the top of the rectangular grave and after a long moment of silence, he began to sing. He softly sang a melody. It wasn’t the voice of an old man, it was the sound of a man of wisdom, at the crossroads of his life. In his lyrics about birth, life and death, he managed to simplify the journey.

He sang respectfully of the town. The chords rang out with a story and it changed from chant, to audible vibrations. What started slow and sweet, grew into a dirge, and then a eulogy.

The cemetery seemed to sparkle. The mysterious, mausoleums of the dead complimented the austere ceremony in silent, solemn, reverence. Architectural monuments representing the accomplishments of the families of the historic city made it picturesque. The man in black spoke suddenly of spring. He talked of this day and how the fall is often described as the auspicious time for endings, but remarked on how appropriate it is that Portland should die when it’s most beautiful. All the attending birds sang out from the branches of the blooming trees in full agreement to the majesty of the day and the irony of Portland’s demise.

It’s fitting that no one was there. Nature made it a happening. The sacred words of the man in black were only for the skies, flower and fauna to share. Portland was placed to rest peacefully with all the appropriate in attendance.

Any donations or contributions should be made to concerned charities.